


Go Fish

by yescupid



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Rivalry, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:56:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yescupid/pseuds/yescupid
Summary: When Wilbur, the former president of a fallen nation, thrown to its demise by his own hands, and "J" Schlatt, the emperor who stole the beloved nation from Wilbur himself find themselves in a thrilling of game of Go Fish in the afterlife, the expanse seems to open for the first time since Wilbur's arrival and the pair are forced to welcome the most recent member of the land they once knew to lose his final life.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Go Fish

**Author's Note:**

> As a tribute to Tommy, it is only right that I write something in remembrance of him and my head-canon of his entrance into the afterlife and the realm of where the Dream SMP members end of after losing their final life. This one is far shorter than my last post, Hidden in the Sand that you should read if you have not already, it would be much appreciated!
> 
> It is short, but I wanted to share.

“Threes?” 

“What?” 

“Do you have any threes, I said.” 

“Oh. No. Go fish.” 

The recipient huffed in disappointment and leaned forwards, plucking a card from the top of the deck as his adversary lifted a bottle to his lips and swallowed loudly. Then, raising the hand that clutched his splayed cards, he used it to swipe his sleeve across his lips. The drunken man reclined further into his chair, legs stretched out beneath the miniscule card-table. He arched his back into a stretch, lifting himself from his seat before falling into his lazed position once again, 

His competition, a tactfully poised figure, treated any game as elementary as Go Fish, like battle. He surveyed his hand, earning a grumble of impatience from his companion yet he took no haste in combing through his set of cards. Each decision was life or death, even in a simple card-game. War drums pounded in his ears, each card decorated with numbers and symbols standing in attention under his command. He imagined each wearing a suit of armor, two fingers raised to their temples in salute. 

The business man of who he played, whose breath reeked of alcohol, did not seem as interested. His overcoat had been discarded to the floor, his white under-shirt wrinkled and rolled to his elbows, stained with a suspicious brown liquid that could only be beer. His tie was undone, hung loosely around his neck like an unused noose. His eyes, shaded with purple beneath either lid, accompanied his disheveled disposition.    
  


“Do you have any sixes?” 

There was a pause before a gruff sound, something similar to a growl, arose between them and a bottle was placed pointedly upon the table. The business man, clearly disgruntled, plucked a card from his hand and tossed it across the table. It surpassed Wilbur’s line of defense, his elbows propped on the edge of the cool surface, and flicked against his chest before plummeting to his lap. 

Wilbur glanced down to his middle, to the deep shadow of red that smeared his shirt, and said, “Why thank you, J.” 

“J?” The tipsy man in the suit lifted his eyes across the table, peering from beneath his brow. “You never call me that. I don’t like it.” 

“We’ve been friends long enough, I’d think.” Wilbur grinned and lifted the card from his lap, holding it between his pointer and middle finger before sliding it into his hand, amongst his soldiers. 

“Friends.” J laughed. It was a deflating sound, like someone placed their foot on his diaphragm and forced the breath from his lungs, slowly, painfully. It hung in the air, his breath tainted with the aroma of his drink. 

Wilbur said nothing and only grasped the neck of the bottle to take a swig himself. His nose would crinkle in distaste, engraving his forehead. It was too strong. J smirked from his seat, crossing his arms over his chest as the bottle was returned to him. He found this far more amusing than the game itself. 

“Still weak, old friend?” J purred. 

The sound of glass sliding across the table, liquid sloshing against its walls, was a symphony in the empty space where nothing but light bathed their faces, highlighting every dark crevice of their complexions. 

"That,”  Wilbur began, tongue sliding across his lips, “Would burn anyone’s throat, Schlatt.” 

“Exactly why I love it.” The corners of his mouth curled into a smile, flashing his teeth. 

The thread between them strained, twanging as the taught air seemed to pluck it. The room brightened in response to the tension, its white walls becoming even more blinding than before. It seemed to swallow the pair and the card table whole, its silence becoming a distant hum.

The thread snapped, both seemingly startled as the room’s buzz became silent. Truly silent. The unruly luminescence became suffocating, jolting into life. 

“What the hell is it?” Schlatt snarled to the room, slamming his remaining cards onto the table. Wilbur however, was already on his feet, his mouth a thin line of concentration. His coat flared behind him as he walked and while it seemed he would reach the end of the room as he fled the table and his competition, he did not. He simply continued walking into the void of light. 

Something shuffled behind him, a chair scraping against the floor and the stumbled footsteps of Schlatt could be heard on his heels. Wilbur paid no mind, squinting against the light. 

“Will.” Schlatt called, pursuing him still. “Wilbur, you bastard.” His steps were uneven. 

Wilbur tossed a hand dismissively over his shoulder, earning a growl from his companion. He ushered his hands into his pockets, listening to the echo of his falling footsteps, the soft whisper of his coat that billowed behind him. A draft had seeped into the expanse of the room. 

Suddenly, he stopped, and J nearly slammed into his back. 

From the floor, emerald sprigs of grass had sprouted from the smooth floor which harbored no soil that would have allowed such beautiful growth. It was a measly patch but was warm in the chilled room and supplied a bloom of color amidst the endless bright white that coated every wall, the ceiling, and the floor beneath them. Upon the sparse bed, lay a purple flower without leaves, holding a tuft of petals on the end of the stem. It wasn’t rooted and only lay there limply as though cast aside, forgotten.

“An allium.” Wilbur breathed, lifting the flower to his nose. He inhaled, his eyelids fluttered. It smelled of the endless fields of the past. Of home. 

“Willbur.” Schlatt hissed from behind him. 

“What is it, Schlatt? You’ve caught up, stop spitting my name.” 

“Look.” J commanded, grasping him by the shoulder, turning him roughly to the left, extending a quivering hand to the distance, a crooked index finger poised in the direction of a figure, hunched over amongst the void of light. 

The figure turned aimlessly, arms wrapped around its thin body, clinging to any sense of awareness it had left. Something smudged its forehead and temple, an explosion of glittering red and purple. 

Wilbur did nothing but exhale and the figure whirled towards him. His eyes were piercing, a bright blue that trembled with an ocean’s strength, cutting across the empty room in a parade of crashing waves that succeeded and receded in fear. 

Then, the figure began to run. It broke into a sprint in their direction, something of a sob riling in his chest as his arms flung forward and he barreled into Wilbur’s chest, tossing his arms around his middle. 

Wilbur bristled, his eyes rounding as he glanced down to the boy. His heartbeat, long unheard, seemed to thunder in his hollow chest. He had long forgotten the feeling of warmth coiled around him and the child, still warm with life, seeped into every inch of his skin. 

It was slow, hesitant, but he clutched his old friend to him, fingers twining into his hair, an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Wilbur ran cold in disbelief, his eyes transfixed on the allium he had discarded to the floor and he knew, from Schlatt’s silence, that he too was bewildered. 

“Tommy.” Wilbur stammered, pulling the boy from him to unveil his young face and tousled blonde hair. A horrid thing tainted the skin across his forehead and temple, a scar that etched across his skin, smeared with purple-green bruising and bubbling with blood. Will lifted a hand, brushing his fingers across the wound. Tommy didn’t flinch as though the gash across his skull was a figment of their thoughts, an obscured perception of his face. “What happened?” 

The room’s light swelled. 

“Dream.” Tommy answered simply, a shadow falling over his complexion that was unshakable. He clutched his friend’s coat, scabs visible along his knuckles. “He took my life.” 

A fire flickered in Wilbur’s chest, Schlatt had gone unnoticed, stunned to silence. His grip tightened on the boy, his fists growing white. Tommy however, seemed unphased other than the tears that streaked his grime-ridden face as his eyes fell to the ground. 

He untangled his fingers from Wilbur’s trench coat, bending over to pick up the discarded allium, its stem snapped possibly from being stepped on or thrown to the side. The boy’s breath suddenly fled him as he brushed the flower against the edge of his nose, gently cupping it in his hand, his other still wound around Wilbur’s arm. 

“I missed you, Tommy.” Was all Wilbur could muster and the cavity in his chest murmured, the scar across his torso festering in his center. 

The boy turned to him, clutching the flower to his chest as he leaned forwards, forehead resting against the front of his older friend, his brother, his words leaving him as a solemn mutter that vibrated against Wilbur’s chest. 

“I missed you too, Will.” 

**Author's Note:**

> With love :)


End file.
